Chapter 113 — News Beneath the Banquet

The victory feast at Storm's End began that evening and showed no intention of ending before dawn. Roasted ox turned on spits in the great hall while platters of rabbit, onions, honeyed ham, and black bread vanished almost as quickly as servants could replace them, and singers learned within an hour that every table wanted a different version of the day's tournament.

Arlan heard his own name rhymed badly with harden twice and decided the singers were more dangerous than the jousters had been.

Knighthood changed the way the room approached him faster than lordship ever had. Veteran marcher lords who once treated FireStorm as an inconvenient patch of mountain ground crossed the hall to congratulate Ser Arlan Ashenblade, Reach knights asked about his mounted technique, and Crownlands retainers wanted to know where the black armor came from.

A merchant even offered exclusive rights to sell Red Sun Flame in King's Landing before Arlan had finished his first cup. He accepted the compliments, rejected the exclusivity, and drank far less than Robert seemed to expect from everyone within reach of a flagon.

The King remained loud enough to dominate the hall without effort, retelling the final foot bout to anyone who came near his table and improving Arlan's speed with every version. By the fourth telling, Ser Alan Trant had apparently been defeated before the horn finished sounding.

Renly watched from Robert's left with visible amusement. Elton Caron occupied a distant seat, and very few men found reasons to linger near him.

The royal paymaster had already counted the tournament purses: one hundred gold dragons for each event and five hundred more for the overall championship. Eight hundred dragons was a ridiculous amount to earn with lance and sword, but Arlan knew how quickly mine expansion, reserve grain, armor maintenance, and caravan insurance could consume a fortune once men stopped staring at the pile and started spending it.

Ser Jess's broken arm had been set by the castle healers. The injury was serious enough to keep him from fighting for some time, but not the life-ending ruin Elton's face suggested, which suited Arlan perfectly; House Caron needed no help turning a clean tourney defeat into another grievance.

Near midnight, Arlan escaped to a terrace overlooking Shipbreaker Bay. Cold salt wind cleared the heat of the hall from his face, while below the cliffs the sea struck stone with a rhythm older than every house drinking inside.

Brienne stood near the doorway, where she had been congratulated almost as often as Arlan by men who seemed to assume his victories proved something about everyone serving FireStorm. She had not decided whether to enjoy the association or resent it.

"The entire castle knows your name now," she said.

Arlan rested both hands on the parapet. "Names are easy to learn. Respect lasts only while men have a reason to keep it."

"You gave them three reasons today."

"For today."

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Brienne studied him for a moment. "Most men would enjoy winning for at least one night."

"I am enjoying the wind."

She almost smiled before footsteps approached through the corridor. Rodrick emerged carrying a folded message without a visible seal, and excitement had broken through more of his reserve than Arlan was accustomed to seeing. "Ser Arlan."

The title still sounded unfamiliar to Arlan. "What happened?"

Rodrick glanced back toward the hall and lowered his voice. "A rider from FireStorm reached one of my outer contacts. Cade sent this by the private route. Blackstone Creek." Arlan took the letter. Cade's handwriting was blocky and disciplined. The report described a noise from the sealed chamber, heat beneath the inner door, and what Cade found after following Arlan's emergency instruction to enter with only two trusted veterans.

The egg had hatched. Red scales. Golden eyes. Fire within minutes of breaking the shell. Alive, feeding, and confined to the inner chamber. Arlan read the report twice as Vaelora's ring warmed beneath his glove. The distant pulse he had felt on Robert's dais returned, faint but distinct enough that he could no longer dismiss it as imagination.

Brienne watched his face. "Good news?"

"Very good."

She knew nothing about the egg, and Rodrick knew only that Cade had reported something sensitive from the restricted mine branch. Neither pressed when Arlan folded the message, although Brienne's expression made clear that she had noticed the boundary.

Before burning the parchment, Arlan memorized Cade's final line: the creature settles most readily beside the cloak you left in the chamber. The observation mattered more than scale color or size, because the bond described in Vaelora's papers had stopped being theory.

He held the message over a terrace lamp until flame caught the edge, crushed the remaining fragments in a bronze tray, and left nothing readable for a curious servant or spy. "Dangerous as well," Brienne said quietly.

"Yes."

That was all he gave her. Cade had handled the aftermath properly. The broken shell remained inside the incubation chamber, only the men already involved had entered, and the outer guards were told merely that a dangerous animal connected to restricted mine work had been born unexpectedly. It was not a clever lie, which made it useful; boring explanations attracted less curiosity than elaborate ones.

The hatchling changed Arlan's timetable. Robert would soon continue his progress, and once royal business moved elsewhere, FireStorm gained nothing from keeping its lord at court while a newborn dragon sat under the care of soldiers who had never expected dragons to exist.

Arlan returned to the feast long enough to request a private word with Renly. The Lord of Storm's End received him in a smaller solar after drunken songs had begun swallowing the hall, his jeweled cloak removed and exhaustion showing where Robert's court could not see it.

"Leaving already?" Renly asked after Arlan explained that urgent household business required him home.

"FireStorm has been without me long enough."

"You won a royal tourney today. Most men would spend a month ensuring everyone remembered."

"If they forget in a week, another month of drinking will not save me."

Renly laughed softly. "You are an inconvenient vassal to flatter."

"I try to be economical."

Permission came easily. Renly confirmed that the tournament purses would be paid before departure and repeated, more seriously, that Robert's public favor had raised the political cost of another attack on FireStorm. "Elton heard my warning," Renly said. "Whether he understood it is another matter."

"He has misunderstood clearer things."

"Then keep your evidence close."

Arlan bowed and returned to his chamber before dawn. Vaelora's ring remained warm around his finger, and at the edge of his awareness a second heartbeat came and went like a distant signal. A dragon had hatched beneath FireStorm.

For nearly a year Arlan had built strength through men, trade, steel, planning, and discipline. The creature under Blackstone Creek replaced none of that, but it changed what might become possible if he kept it alive and hidden long enough to grow. He slept for two hours. At sunrise, FireStorm's escort began preparing to ride home.